


The Robert Report

by ErinPtah



Series: The Expectingverse [1]
Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Early Work, Early in Canon, Gen, Ghosts, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-17
Updated: 2006-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bobby manages the stage, the staff, and Stephen; the Report staff faces down a ghost; and we discover why the staff doesn't quit en masse, despite their boss' refusal to learn any valuable lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Toss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic written during TCR's first year. See the [Expectingverse masterpost](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/107961.html) for the rest of this universe.
> 
> [The toss](http://thedailyshow.cc.com/videos/qasbmu/daily-colbert---stuff) referenced in this chapter.

  
  
It's almost time for the cameras to start rolling, and a crisis has hit the set of _The Colbert Report_. A crisis of epic proportions. A crisis that could stop the entire show in its tracks.  
  
They're out of coffee.  
  
Fortunately, Bobby, the stage manager, is an expert at dealing with crises. He puts a new pot on—sixty percent decaf and forty percent regular, just the way Stephen likes it (read: demands it)—and has a mug on the C-shaped desk ninety seconds before the toss.  
  
The host takes a sip and sighs approvingly. Now that the crisis has passed and he isn't busy being angry at everyone within shouting distance, he's grinning like a kid with a new toy. "Wait until Jon hears tonight's toss," he enthuses. "You just watch, Bobby—he's going to do that thing where he tries not to laugh, then giggles the girliest giggle ever . . . ."  
  
Uh-oh.  
  
Bobby doesn't relish the thought of Stephen's reaction when he hears this, but experience has shown that it'll be worse if the host is caught by surprise. "Um, Stephen . . . ."  
  
"Yes, Bobby?" Stephen takes another sip of coffee.  
  
"Jon didn't do the show tonight."  
  
Had this been part of a script, Stephen would have been mid-sip when he heard this, and there would be coffee all over the front of Bobby's favorite black jacket. But this is reality, and the comic timing is off; Stephen's already put down the cup. So he just stares, and Bobby watches as his entire expression collapses in on itself.  
  
"What?" Stephen finally croaks.  
  
"Rob Corddry's filling in for him," Bobby explains. "Jon's wife went into labor this morning, so . . . ."  
  
Fifteen seconds to the tease, and Stephen is standing up and grabbing Bobby's arm, and the mild-mannered manager with the scruffy beard and unkempt hair finds himself pushed into the chair. _Stephen's_ chair! Five seconds—he can see the light on the camera blinking, can hear the faint strains of _The Daily Show_ audio filtering through his headset. Three seconds—he's shaking his head at Stephen, _what are you doing, you have to do the toss_ —  
  


"Welcome back—before we go, let's check in with Stephen Colbert at _The Colbert Report_. Stephen?"  
  
" _You do it!_ " Stephen's hissing at Bobby.  
  
Now in the host's chair, Bobby looks helplessly at the camera. "Yeah. Um—" A glance at his boss finds the man's face unchanged; Stephen's not backing down. (When does he ever?)  
  
"Sorry," Bobby begins. "I'm Bobby, the stage manager—and, uh . . . ." He looks to Stephen for help, hands open in the universal gesture of _Give me something, here._  
  
" _Tell him I don't work with fill-ins!_ " hisses Stephen sharply.  
  
"Ap-apparently Stephen doesn't work with fill-ins," explains Bobby, toying with his pen and moving his head in what he hopes is an authoritative manner.  
  
" _So I'm having you do this!_ " adds his boss helpfully.  
  
"So, he's having me do this," Bobby repeats dutifully, nodding some more.  
  
He's never met Rob Corddry in person before, so Bobby isn't sure how the substitute host will take this; but Corddry's nodding too, which is probably a good sign. And he's a professional newsman; he does interviews all the time; if anyone can keep talking in these circumstances, it's him.  
  
"Good. Great. Great," he says. "So, ah . . . Okay, then, um: Bobby. What's going on?"  
  
So much for that idea.  
  
The ball is back in Bobby's court, he's at a loss again, and what's more, his hair is falling in his eyes. He turns to Stephen, whose earlier crushed look (crushed? Stephen? Really?) has been replaced by the familiar Anger At Something That Is Most Certainly Not His Fault, Oh No. A moment later, a piece of paper is slapped down on the desk.  
  


Bobby studies it for a second, then looks up into the camera and summons up all the _gravitas_ in his soul.  
  
"Stuff," he announces.  
  
"Great," says Corddry again, not unkindly. "Great. 'S perfect. Thanks, Bobby."  
  
Here at last was familiar ground. "You're welcome," replies Bobby, and turns back to Stephen, hoping that's enough.  
  


" _He's not welcome!_ " snaps Stephen.  
  
But it's all right now, because the camera has switched off, and the burden of entertaining _The Daily Show_ 's audience is entirely on Corddry—and Stephen looks like he wants his chair back. Bobby's more than happy to give it up.  
  
They have sixty seconds until _The Colbert Report_ 's opening montage, and a new crisis is at hand: Stephen's not grinning anymore.  
  
"I was _counting_ on hearing that stupid giggle," he grumbles. "How dare Jon bail on me? My whole night's been thrown off. —Bobby."  
  
The stage manager looks up from his hasty rearrangement of the papers on his clipboard. "What is it, Stephen?"  
  
"Giggle."  
  
". . . sorry?"  
  
"Giggle." Stephen waves his hands expressively. "You've heard how Jon giggles. Just do that, so I can do the show. Go on."  
  
Bobby tries his best.  
  
He really does.  
  
"All right, all right, that's enough," exclaims his boss, cringing and waving him away. "I'll just have to carry on somehow. If the liberal media senses weakness, they'll be all over me. Go! You're blocking the cameras on my good side."  
  
Gratefully, Bobby retreats to the safety of the shadows. The spotlight is Stephen's place, not his. If ever he harbored any secret desires for that to change, tonight has seen them thoroughly squished.


	2. The Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doesn't go with one specific opening, though it does make reference to [the performance reviews](http://thecolbertreport.cc.com/videos/eh7h1y/employee-performance-reviews).

That magical time of day has arrived: ten seconds to 11:30. Not that there's any supernatural halt to errors, malfunctions, and crises at this point. But it's late enough that even if a problem did arise, Bobby wouldn't be able to do anything about it.  
  
Therefore, this is his time to relax.  
  
He stands off to the side of the set, between the studio audience and the main bank of cameras, carefully avoiding the tangle of wires that spreads across the floor like kudzu. He knows without looking the exact angle of the teleprompter, and where to stand so as not to block Stephen's view.  
  
He munches on a cookie.  
  


  
Being stage manager is usually a thankless job. If something goes wrong, the blame usually goes back to you; meanwhile, most of the world doesn't know what you actually _do_. (Bobby's forever explaining to people that even though he is only ever seen standing around with a clipboard, he is integral to the show's operation.)  
  
But it's worse than that for Bobby, because Bobby is stage manager for _The Colbert Report_ , and Stephen Colbert is the kind of boss who takes personal credit for everything that goes right. Not just in the show's operation, either: when Canada elected a Prime Minister from the Conservative party, the host ordered a balloon drop with the graphic "I Fixed Canada!"  
  
So Bobby works for a man who is completely oblivious to his efforts, and who will get mad if you so much as accidentally pronounce the wrong "T".  
  
Not for the first time, Bobby wonders why he hasn't quit.  
  
The cameras go on. Bobby stops with the cookie—he doesn't want unidentified crunching in the broadcast—and Stephen starts talking.  
  
He's egotistical, he's hypocritical, he's stubborn, he's petty, and he cannot stand to be wrong. On top of that, his personality is so overpowering that, before the unassuming Bobby had time to notice what was happening, Stephen had permeated every area of his life.  
  
The host spins in his chair to face another camera.  
  
Even the half-finished cookie in his hand is there because of Stephen. Before his last performance review, in response to a set of painfully unsubtle warning looks from Stephen, Bobby bought twenty boxes of Thin Mints from his daughter's Girl Scout cookie sale. Half of them are still in his freezer.  
  
Stephen spins the chair again.  
  
Why hadn't he bought some variety? Because he was Bobby, the quiet and amiable, and with Stephen holding out the order form and eyeing him expectantly, he'd been too flustered to even look at where he was scribbling the "20".  
  
At least he likes Thin Mints.  
  
No. Enough rationalizing. This is no way to work. This is no way to _live_.  
  
Bobby quietly finishes the cookie and makes a decision. He has to do it. He has to muster up some courage, look Stephen in the eye, and give him two weeks' notice. Why didn't he do this long ago?  
  
And then Stephen spins to face the front, and begins, "This—"  
  
He stops.  
  
The studio holds its breath.  
  
The quiet lasts a second too long—  
  
—Bobby's heart is in his mouth, his nerves frozen—  
  
—and this is why he stays, because every day at this job is like jumping off a cliff—  
  
"—is _The Colbert Report!_ "  
  
—and finding that, like the eagle swooping across the screen as the theme song starts, you have wings.


	3. The Wørd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refers to [this scripted appearance of Bobby's](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/71107/june-26-2006/buffett-hires-gates), followed by [this Wørd](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/71107/june-26-2006/buffett-hires-gates).

_The Colbert Report_ 's overworked and underpaid stage manager is walking on air tonight. He's been in a daze of happiness all afternoon. He did manage to get everyone in the right places for rehearsal, but he can't really remember how.  
  
You see, Bobby doesn't like unscripted things happening during the show. It still sets his teeth on edge, even though it happens all the time: Stephen is always stumbling across new bits of information midafternoon, and then it's Bobby's job to interrupt the show and correct him. Or, worse, Stephen will pull Bobby onstage himself. Either way, the nice script that worked so well in rehearsal will be thrown to the wind.  
  
Bobby likes scripts. He likes neatness, order, details, sticking to schedules. That's why he's a manager.  
  
Stephen doesn't care whether the script is followed, so long as everything continues to revolve around him. That's why he's a pundit.  
  
Not that Bobby minds being included. On most shows the stage manager is just another line in the credits, as far as the audience is concerned. It's nice that, on this show, they get to see him once in a while. He just wishes he could have some advance notice before the cameras are turned on him.  
  
Well, today it's finally happened. Bobby's in the script.  
  
No wonder he's distracted.  
  
The whole _Report_ crew likes Bobby, so they make an extra effort to keep things running smoothly today. The lighting crew members write their cues large and clear, and talk to each other to make sure everyone has a copy. Everyone is on time for rehearsal, especially after the roadie known only as Killer announces that he'll personally track down anyone who shows up late. The interns (all of whom have been comforted, or covered for, by Bobby at some point) are in top form: they dust, they carry messages, they change light bulbs. Bobby completely forgets about Stephen's coffee, and the whole team of interns rises to the occasion; Christina fills the pot, Jess keeps an eye on it, Sean has the milk and sugar ready.  
  
Later, Bobby will wish he'd been paying more attention; but right now he's standing in his scripted position, holding a telephone.  
  
He gets there five minutes before the show starts, and normally these five minutes are used to get five thousand last-minute things done, but today he needs it all to get his grin under control.  
  


  
The credits seem to take forever, but finally they finish, and Stephen takes a minute to drink in the applause (and a shout of "YEAH COLBERT!" from a particularly enthusiastic viewer). He then launches right into his top story: the largest charitable donation in history, made by multibillionaire Warren Buffett to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.  
  
"Of course, it's not all rosy," he adds. "I was hoping Mr. Buffett would consider giving a few billion dollars to my charity, the _Stephen_ and Melinda Gates Foundation . . . It is my life's work—which I started last Monday—to help alleviate . . . the conditions of . . . We're still working it out. So many conditions to alleviate."  
  
(On the books, Bobby is vice-director of the Stephen and Melinda Gates Foundation. His job so far has consisted of designing the logo.)  
  
At last Stephen comes to the point: "Anyway, call me. Operators are standing by. Or rather, _operator_ are standing by. Bobby? Hit it."  
  


  
He's shaved, his hair's brushed, and the spotlight has been angled to draw him out from the background. "Warren Buffett," he says brightly, "I am waiting for your call."  
  
Exactly as scripted.  
  
"Good man," says Stephen.  
  
He spins, Camera Four zooms in, and then he turns back. "Anything yet?"  
  
"Um . . ." Bobby looks at the phone, then looks back at Stephen and shakes his head. "No." He looks back at the phone. Was this thing even on?  
  


  
"Okay, nation," says Stephen, addressing Camera Four again; and he goes on into the next segment of the script—the one that culminates in the unveiling of Stephen Colbert's Medal of Audacity. He moves on to Senator John Edwards' newly declared war on poverty—"which brings us to tonight's Wørd: Class Warfare."  
  
Bobby hasn't moved. He's only vaguely aware that he's still holding the phone.  
  
They pulled it off.  
  
The "anything yet?" had _not_ been in the script, but it's just the sort of thing Stephen would do, so it wasn't exactly unexpected. And it doesn't bother Bobby, because Stephen actually put most of their interaction in the script this time rather than calling on him out of the blue, and maybe that means Stephen's changing.  
  
Maybe this is the start of Stephen who is truly sensitive to the needs of others. Maybe this foreshadows a kinder, gentler Stephen; a Stephen who notices people besides himself; a Stephen who—  
  


  
"In fact, I pay my interns nothing," Stephen continues. "By the way, Sean, English major from Boston University! If you put whole milk in my coffee again, you're _fired_ from your nonpaying job!"  
  
Or maybe not.  
  
Bobby comes down from the clouds, sets down the phone, and picks up the clipboard that somebody helpfully made sure was nearby. He starts taking notes, beginning with a list of who to thank for doing what today.  
  
"And that's the Wørd," says Stephen. "We'll be right back."  
  
The applause starts, the cameras roll back, and Bobby slips offstage. He only has a few minutes to find Sean and make sure the English major won't have a nervous breakdown or jump out a window.  
  
Fortunately, now that he's no longer distracted by silly fantasies, a few minutes is all Bobby needs.


	4. The Second Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amora the _chica_ 's name comes from the old Spanish root that corresponds to the old French root of "Amy". The other _chica_ is named Paolo.
> 
> Refers to [Esteban's first appearance](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/61314/april-05-2006/formidable-opponent---immigration). When _Colberto Reporto Gigante_ is referenced for the second time, it's described as something like "our Spanish-language sister program", so I wanted to reconcile that with the first time it appeared.

Jimmy, the director, has asked Bobby to help him run a last-minute check on the video connections. The rest of the crew is scattered around the studio, and Bobby's the only one on the main set at the moment. He's needed in a dozen other places, of course; but he's always ready to help Jimmy out.  
  
Jimmy runs the control room, deciding which camera feeds go out to the public. If he's distracted, the screen turns into test patterns and stock bear footage; so he's usually safe from Stephen's irritation, and left to do as he pleases. He even has the authority to pull Bobby aside for a few minutes.  
  
"What do you need me to do, Jim?" asks the stage manager, looking into one of the cameras at random. (The control room has a big bank of televisions that shows them all; Jimmy will be able to look him in the eye on at least one of them.)  
  
"Stand under camera four," a voice from the upstage left ceiling speaker tells him. Bobby picks up his clipboard, tucks the pen behind his ear, and moves. "Good. Now, we're hooking up the Mexican feed; just relax for a minute."  
  
"Do you actually need me?" asks Bobby, a little suspiciously.  
  
Jimmy sighs. "We could've used an intern, if that's what you mean. But you looked like you could use a break."  
  
"Thanks, but, ah, I really should get back . . ."  
  
"Oh no you don't," replies the director with a sense of finality. "Besides, _Colberto Reporto Gigante_ doesn't have interns. You'll be talking with Roberto."  
  
_Colberto Reporto Gigante_ is the _Report_ 's new sister program in Mexico, founded by Stephen to prove to Stephen that no, Stephen is not being unrealistic, Stephen's job is not safe from low-paid Mexican replacement, and Stephen is a fool to feel secure in it.  
  
This is the kind of convoluted logic that usually goes on in preparation for a round of Formidable Opponent. Stephen loves to have rousing debates, but he doesn't respect anyone's opinion but his own. The result: a feature in which Stephen vigorously debates with himself, preceded by a lot of complex work by Stephen to arrange undeniable proof that Stephen is wrong.  
  
It's a pity his boss doesn't believe in psychoanalysis, Bobby sometimes thinks, because one of Freud's descendants could start a whole new school of theory based on him. Formidable Opponent all by itself is worth at least a textbook.  
  
Tonight's debate is immigration; at the critical point—when Stephen points out that _his_ job, as a television pundit, is safe—Stephen will counter by having the feed switched to _el Reporto_. The host: Esteban Colberto, a veritable doppelgänger of Stephen (except for the moustache and garish pink suit). The unseen stage manager: Roberto.  
  


  
Bobby has wanted to talk to Roberto ever since the Reporto was greenlighted. He wonders how Jimmy knew.  
  
"Roberto, are you there?" asks Jimmy's voice, and a man with a thick stereotypical Mexican accent replies, " _Hola_ , Jim. Your stage manager, he is there, si?"  
  
"Yes, he is. Say hi, Bob."  
  
"Hello."  
  
" _Hola_ , Bob."  
  
"You two, have a conversation," Jimmy directs. "I have some tests to run. We'll watch the video up here; you two, listen to the speakers. If the sound cuts off at any point, tell me. Got it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
" _Si_."  
  
"Good. Get to it."  
  
Jimmy switches off his own feed—it's just Roberto on all speakers now—and there's a moment of awkward silence. Then Bobby begins, "So . . . how are you?"  
  
"I am well," says Roberto's voice in surround sound. "You are well also, I hope?"  
  
"Sure. Can't complain." Bobby shrugs. "Are you new at this job?"  
  
"We are all new at this job. Today is, how you say, number one episode for _el Reporto_."  
  
"Oh." Pause. "First. The pilot episode, we say."  
  
" _Si_. Your show, it is also new?"  
  
"Sort of. Stephen likes to act as if it's older," Bobby adds.  
  
He tries to think of another topic, then gives up. Even when he's nowhere around, Stephen will dominate the conversation.  
  
"Is Esteban anything like Stephen?"  
  
"Perhaps. How is Señor Stephen like?"  
  
"Well . . . he supports the President. And he likes to talk. And . . . he's afraid of bears . . . ."  
  


  
" _Si!_ Señor Esteban, he also fears the bears. And he likes very much to talk. Only," and Roberto says this with a touch of guilt at revealing it, "he likes to talk only about his own self."  
  
"Yeah, that sounds like Stephen," says Bobby, nodding. (Roberto can't see it, of course, but Bobby nods and shrugs and points by reflex, even when he's alone.) "Talks about himself . . . expects everyone else to talk about him . . . doesn't listen to much else . . . ."  
  
"It would be harsh to say that about Esteban," Roberto puts in. "But," he adds tentatively, "perhaps accurate."  
  
"You can tell already?" asks Bobby, somewhat startled. "I mean, er, it's only the pilot episode . . ."  
  
" _Si_. Esteban is so very much himself, it is easy to say how he is like, after only the planing for _el Reporto_. Your Stephen, he is not like this?"  
  
Bobby considers this. "Actually, you're right . . . Stephen, Stephen's like that."  
  
Now that he thinks back, Bobby can remember those first few weeks clearly: Stephen looking him over at the job interview, Stephen giving detailed orders about how every element on the set was to point to him, Stephen checking each spotlight to make sure it flattered his features. "Yeah, even back then, I could see how he was."  
  
"Very much himself."  
  
"Egocentric."  
  
"Strong in his thoughts."  
  
"Stubborn."  
  
"Loving of his country."  
  
"Jingoistic . . ."  
  
"A bit difficult, perhaps?" suggests Roberto.  
  
_Insufferable_ , thinks Bobby, then checks himself. (He's suffered it so far, hasn't he?) "A bit difficult, yeah." (But sufferable.)  
  
"Your Stephen, he sounds very much like my Esteban," concludes the Mexican stage manager. "Only, he is in English, and without _las chicas_."  
  
"I guess he is."  
  
"And still, you continue to do your work."  
  
It occurs to Bobby that Roberto might be just as nervous as he, Bobby, was early on. "Yeah. It's, it's not all bad," he reassures his counterpart. "It can be exciting. And, well, I can't quit, because I signed a contract, but I don't _want_ to."  
  
"Then there is hope for me," says Roberto, and Bobby would swear he can hear the man smiling. "I also have signed a contract. I could see how Señor Esteban was like; I did not have to sign it. But I did, and do you know why?"  
  
His voice has a conspiratorial edge, and all of a sudden Bobby wonders if there's something more going on here, and whether it, like so much of the _Reporto_ , is similar to his own situation.  
  
Was Roberto just morbidly curious? Had he wanted the rush, because the most exciting thing in his life before this had been watching a tense game of soccer? Did he have the sneaking suspicion that, under all the bluster and bombast and bravado, his boss might, just might, have something deeper—something that he wants to see through?  
  
"Because," replies Roberto, in a low voice, "Amora—she is the _chica_ on the right—she has been, how do you say, giving me the eye."  
  
"Oh," says Bobby.  
  
His automatic "compliment" routine kicks in, and he adds, "Well, good luck with that."  
  
Jimmy chooses this point to step in: "Okay, I'm done. Thanks, you two. You did great."  
  
"Sure, no problem."  
  
" _De nada_ , Señor Jim."  
  
The sound cuts out, and Bobby finds that his curiosity is completely satisfied.


	5. The Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refers to [this interview](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/181165/november-09-2005/mary-roach). For best results, I recommend not watching until you've gotten to the point in the fic where it happens.
> 
> Veronica the intern is named after Veronica Corningstone from _Anchorman_. (In my _Report_ cosmology, _all_ the fake newspeople are real.)

It's Veronica's first day on the job, and she spends half an hour in the bathroom touching up her makeup. Of course, she's only an intern—it isn't as if she'll actually appear on-camera—but she wants to make a good impression anyway.  
  
At last she forces herself to wash her hands and drag herself away from the mirror. She gets as far as the paper towel dispenser, where she nervously twists some towels in her hands. (Stephen Colbert doesn't hold with environment-huging, eco-gestapo ideas like hot-air dryers.)  
  
She's facing the stain on the wall, but she's too nervous to focus, so she stares at it for a few seconds without processing it. Besides, it's so out-of-context that she doesn't realize what it is.  
  
Then her brain works it out, and she screams.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Tad, the building manager, has been in all of the rooms after hours, but he's clearly not comfortable being in the ladies' room when there are actual ladies in it.  
  
"If the walls are going to bleed," he remarks to nobody in particular, "couldn't they at least do it in the men's?"  
  
Bobby isn't too keen on being in the ladies' room either; but Allison informs him curtly that the intern is too traumatized to come out. So he sucks it up, goes in, and ends up standing across from Tad with the paralyzed Veronica.  
  
"Don't panic," he begins, because that's always a good phrase to start with. "You're probably imagining a lot of worst-case scenarios right now, but trust me, they're not true. Nobody was murdered in here; nobody has a fatal disease; this is not a twisted threat by a psychopath. There's nothing to panic about. Do you understand?"  
  
Veronica nods slowly. In the background, Tad calls a janitor.  
  


  
"Look at me," says Bobby calmly.  
  
Slowly, Veronica does. There's eye contact. Good.  
  
"Nobody's been hurt," he continues. "This is weird, I know, but it's not dangerous."  
  
"If nobody's hurt," begins Veronica, and then stops.  
  
Bobby waits patiently.  
  
"Well," she finally manages, "where did it come from?"  
  
"We don't know. But it's happened before, and we've caught it on camera a couple of times. It just sort of happens."  
  
He can see that Veronica's thinking now, so he doesn't interrupt. Then she takes a deep breath. "This," she tells him, "is really creepy."  
  
Bobby smiles, relieved. She's going to be okay. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. But we work with it."  
  
A spark appears in the formerly fear-deadened eyes: the ember of the fire Bobby's seen before in every great correspondent. It's the determination to carry on, no matter what falls in your path, because by golly there's a story to report. Veronica, he realizes, has a Future.  
  
"Right, then," says she. "If you can work with it, I can work with it too." Then she looks nervous again, but for a completely different reason. "Oh no . . . I'm late . . . ."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Bobby assures her. "I'm the stage manager, and I know you have a legitimate excuse."  
  
"Ah!" exclaims Veronica, eyes lighting up. "I _knew_ you looked familiar."  
  
  
—  
  
  
They're in rehearsal the next day when the spotlight on Stephen goes out.  
  
This is a minor catastrophe, and Peter, the lighting operator, is on it instantly. He looks over the equipment, rapidly running down a mental list of possible mechanical failures. Bobby, for his part, is quickly circling the studio, checking every list of cues.  
  
When he reaches the end of his circle and realizes that they all match, he looks up at Peter, who shoots him an equally baffled look. Then the rest of the lights start flickering.  
  
When the teleprompter shorts out, Bobby makes a quick decision. "All right, everyone, take a break," he directs. "Technicians, stay here . . . everyone else, be back in, let's see, half an hour."  
  
"Peter, what's going on?" demands Stephen. "What happened to my spotlight?"  
  
"It looks like a technical malfunction," calls Peter in reply. Peter is a solid, stable, down-to-earth kind of guy; he has a nice wife and a couple of sweet kids, and he's very good at what he does. He's not very good at handling Stephen.  
  
"Well, fix it and get a light back on me!" orders the host. "I'm in the dark over here!"  
  
Peter, who's in the middle of booting the systems, starts to look irritated. Bobby quickly intercedes before Peter can say something dangerous. "I'll take care of it," he tells the operator quietly. "You should just concentrate on those lights."  
  
  
—  
  
  
Bobby sits on Stephen's desk, holding a flashlight, while Stephen taps away at his laptop. The flashlight actually makes a glare on the laptop screen, but Stephen won't hear of moving it. It's the closest thing he has to a spotlight.  
  
"No storms in the area," he says, half to himself, as he peruses Yahoo! Weather. "No power shortages reported . . . _unless_ . . . if it's affecting _my_ studio, of _course_ the liberal, East Coast, mainstream media won't report it."  
  


  
"Is it on Fox?" puts in Bobby, partly because he's curious, partly because he has nothing else to do while holding the light.  
  
Stephen checks. "Not a peep," he reports. "The MSM's reach must be spreading."  
  
His voice is picking up, and Bobby can feel a rant gaining steam, when the laptop screen flickers and goes black.  
  
The host swears. "I just lost my best game of Hearts ever!" he exclaims. "I was over two hundred points ahead!"  
  
  
—  
  
  
Sean is the first person to say it out loud: "I think the studio's haunted."  
  
The intern has been treading carefully around Stephen ever since the coffee incident, but when the boss isn't around he talks freely. After he breaks the ice on this issue, all the other interns start repeating it, and then all the technicians. Tad starts searching the building's documentation from years past, looking for similar problems. For his part, Bobby doesn't remember anything unusual from the studio's _Daily Show_ days, but of course the building's been around longer than that.  
  
Besides, it's been getting worse recently.  
  
The most terrifying incident to date comes a week after the biggest power outage, on a dark (but not stormy) night. Bobby has stayed overtime to look over some résumés. (Three interns and a sound guy have quit in the past week. They need hirees, and fast.)  
  
Everyone else has gone home, or so Bobby thinks; the building is dark and quiet. Outside is the noise of New York, but extremely muffled. And then there's another noise—like the wind through the trees, except this is NYC, and they don't have trees.  
  
The intercom on Bobby's desk buzzes, and he jumps halfway out of his seat.  
  
He steadies himself quickly. Why should he be so tense? He's been here late before. And if there's a ( _don't say "ghost"_ ) mysterious presence around, it wouldn't be using the intercom system.  
  
He switches it on. "Hello?"  
  
"Bobby? It's Stephen."  
  
"Hi, Stephen," says Bobby, completely failing to mask his relief. "I didn't realize you were still here."  
  
"Could you come down to my office, please?"  
  
Bobby's thrown for a moment by the "please"—this is Stephen, after all—but the voice sounds legit, if a little softer than usual, and he realizes he likes it when his boss is polite. "Sure. I'll be right there."  
  
  
—  
  
  
Stephen's office is brightly lit: there are spotlights on his Peabodys, his Emmys, his portraits, and his own chair. The effect is a bit garish, but Bobby's privately glad the room is so well lit. It takes the edge off the creepy.  
  
"So," says Stephen as Bobby walks in. "How are you?"  
  
"Me? Fine," Bobby replies, somewhat confused. "Fine . . . Can't complain, I suppose." (This probably isn't the time to bring up health insurance.)  
  
"How, how are those applications looking?" ventures Stephen.  
  
"Oh—not bad. Not bad. There are some promising candidates." Bobby nods.  
  
(He's horrible at small talk. Or rather, he's good at touching base with the _Report_ staff to see how they're doing; but he can't talk to Stephen that casually. The man is in a conversational league all his own. He tries anyway.)  
  
"And, ah, how are you?—Stephen?"  
  
"Doing okay, doing okay."  
  
So much for that idea. There's no getting over the awkwardness of trying to have a normal conversation with attack-dog Stephen. So the room goes silent again, except for the wind—  
  
The _wind_ —  
  
Both Stephen and Bobby jump as the air around them wails with what sounds like nothing less than a crowd of tortured souls howling in agony, or possibly a sack of cats set on fire.  
  
Stephen looks hard at Bobby.  
  
He probably thinks he's being subtle, but in a flash Bobby sees it all: Stephen's hoping that Bobby will confirm that the scream actually happened, that it's not all in Stephen's head. But if Stephen mentions the screams and they _are_ just in his head, he'll look crazy, so he's waiting for Bobby to bring it up.  
  
So he does: "Did you hear that?"  
  
Even though there might easily be a direct feed from the eighth circle of Hell outside their window, the pundit looks relieved.  
  
(Now, _this_ is how you deal with Stephen.)  
  
"Of course I heard it," snaps Stephen. "You'd have to be _all_ deaf to miss a sound like that." His eyes flick around the office. "Think it's the wind?"  
  
"Probably," lies Bobby.  
  
After they've shared a moment of mutual denial, Stephen slaps his desk and stands up. "Let's go to the break room. I feel the need for a crispy toasted BLT."  
  
"Do you really need me for that?" begins Bobby, who, after all, has work to do.  
  
"Well, I can't leave you alone with the wind like that, can I? Way too creepy. You'd get too scared to work." He walks around the desk and opens the door, then looks back at Bobby and grins that disarming Colbert grin. "Come on."  
  
Bobby follows. What else can he do?  
  
Besides, he really is glad for the company.  
  
  
—  
  
  
They turn on every light in the hallways on the way down from the office. Bobby tries to say something about saving energy, but Stephen tells him not to be sucked in by the "conservationistas," and launches into a rant that holds the silence at bay until they reach the break room.  
  
Stephen busies himself with geting out the microwave bacon and toasting the bread; Bobby sits down at the table, pulls out his clipboard, and starts looking over the next application.  
  
The host hums something that might be "America the Beautiful" and might be "Charlene, I'm Right Behind You". The microwave hums with no tune at all—which also might be "Charlene, I'm Right Behind You," come to think of it.  
  
The toaster goes _ding_ , and Stephen lifts the two browned slices and puts them on a plate. He turns to get the lettuce, still humming; turns back to the bread; and freezes.  
  
Bobby looks up when the humming stops, just in time to see Stephen stumble backwards and land in a trembling heap against the break table.  
  
The stage manager is kneeling by his side in an instant. "Stephen! Are you okay?"  
  


  
With an inarticulate shudder, Stephen points to the plate. Bobby gets up, swallows, and nervously approaches the counter.  
  
Burned onto the toast, like the Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich, is the unmistakable visage of White House Press Correspondent Helen Thomas.  
  
The wind, or chorus of souls, screams.  
  
"Let's get out of here," says Bobby, and he helps Stephen up, and the two of them hoof it out to their cars (hybrid for Bobby, SUV for Stephen), and Bobby doesn't even care that all the lights are still on.  
  
  
—  
  
  
"Let's have a seance," suggests Jimmy.  
  
It's the next day, and the whole Report staff is gathered in the break room. Thankfully, the weather is calm and sunny.  
  
Bobby has told the story of the night before, a concise version, mildly edited to keep Stephen from looking bad. He would hardly believe it himself if he hadn't found the toast, unchanged, on the counter that morning.  
  
"I say we just have an exorcism," Stephen puts in. "Let's get those ectoplastards."  
  
Peter, the down-to-earth lighting operator, is practical. "If we don't have a seance, we might not know who we're getting," he points out.  
  
"Oh, _they_ know who they are," counters Stephen.  
  
"We can still do the exorcism after the seance," puts in Veronica, and Sean nods agreement.  
  
Stephen looks like he's about to disagree, but then Killer gets up and walks silently over to stand behind the interns.  
  
"Well, then, it's settled," says Stephen. "We'll have a seance."  
  
  
—  
  
  
It doesn't take them long to find a woman who's written a book about the topic, and would love to be on the show.  
  
Stephen talks with her for a bit, and then comes to the point: "You know something about the afterlife—maybe you could help me with something. Do you believe in ghosts?"  
  
"Actually . . . mmm, not sure," says Mary Roach, waving her hand indecisively.  
  
"Well, okay—help me out with something," repeats Stephen. "Ever since we moved to this studio, about three months ago, there have been all _kinds_ of crazy goin'-ons." He ticks them off on his fingers. "We've had technical malfunctions, the computers go out, the lights flicker . . . and sometimes, at night, when it's quiet, you can hear the souls of the damned scream."  
  
The audience laughs; but Stephen holds his hands out to the interviewee. "I just want to call on the spirits of the past, and see if they'll explain."  
  


  
They clasp hands.  
  
"Just concentrate," murmurs Stephen. "Concentrate."  
  
The lights start to flicker.  
  
"Concentrate!" repeats Stephen, then pulls back abruptly, because he feels it—they all feel it—a Presence.  
  


  
"Spirit?" asks Stephen nervously.  
  
"ooooOOOOOOooooooOOoo," says a voice, and the head of Jon Stewart appears above the table.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Jimmy, thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster, has the presence of mind to keep directing; the camera operators follow his directions automatically, and so the broadcast continues naturally. Everyone else on the staff gapes, openmouthed, at the stage.  
  
"OOOOOooooOOOOoOOooOooo!" continues Jon's head. "HoW'S THe new . . . stUUUUUDiO?"  
  
"Jon!" exclaims Stephen, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "Jon, thank God you're here! We've been having all kinds of problems with the studio—ssometimes the walls _bleed!_ "  
  


  
"mAYbe it's a pROBLeM with the MAASOnrYYYYY?!" speculates the head.  
  
"Well, it's gotta be something more than that," Stephen protests. "I mean—when you were here, was there anything strange about this place? When this was your studio?"  
  
"We did, ah, kind of build it over an Indian burial ground," admits the spirit. "We moved the tombstones, but we left the bodies."  
  
"Okay." Stephen nods. "That's, that's probably it, then. Yeah. Thanks."  
  
"SeE you aT ThE . . . ChrIIIIIStmAAS parTYYyyY!" wails the spirit.  
  
"Right! Right, I'll see you there."  
  
"I'm yOur secREt . . . SANtaaaAAAAAaa!"  
  


  
Stephen nods—"That's great"—and checks his watch. "Listen, we are, ah, we kinda gotta finish the show."  
  
"See you," says the head with a smile, and winks out.  
  
"Well, tahnk you so much for joining us, Mary," says Stephen, leaning in for a handshake. "Mary Roach, everybody! We'll be right back!"  
  
  
—  
  
  
When the audience has filed out, Stephen pulls his shell-shocked crew together and exclaims, "That was great, guys! The audience loved it! How'd you pull it off?"  
  
It's Bobby who speaks up. "We . . . didn't, Stephen."  
  
"Oh, I see. Jon put you up to it, didn't he?" asks the host, still grinning. "I'll call him and tell him what a hit it was."  
  
He whips out a cell phone and hits one button. Just one. Jon is evidently on extra-speed-dial.  
  
"That's not what I mean, Stephen," presses Bobby. Usually when he contradicts Stephen he's by himself in a dark corner; but right now the entire studio is standing in a kind of sloppy semicircle around him, and a strange sense of confidence is bearing him up. "I mean, that wasn't a special effect, or the tech guys on green screens, or a projector, or anything like it . . . _We_ didn't know it was going to happen."  
  
Stephen's face is melting from enthusiastic to confused when the phone in his hand stops ringing and Jon picks up. "Stephen!" comes his affable voice through the speaker. "What's up, my friend?"  
  
The silence hangs for a moment.  
  
"Stephen, are you there?"  
  
The host catches himself. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Uh, Jon . . ." He pauses. "Are you by any chance my Secret Santa?"  
  
Now it's Jon's turn to pause. "Stephen," he says at last, "if I were, and I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."  
  
"So . . . you wouldn't tell me, then?"  
  
Jon's voice has the puzzled air of someone who's starting to realize that there's more going on here than meets the ear. "No, I wouldn't. Why do you ask? Is everything okay?"  
  
"Fine, fine," Stephen says slowly. "I'll . . . call you back." He snaps the phone closed and looks down, eyes focused on something far away.  
  
"The spirits of the past," he says quietly. "We're being haunted by the ghost of Jon Stewart's time here."  
  
The crew barely breathes.  
  
Stephen looks up at them, and there's something in his eyes that Bobby would not have noticed or understood a year ago, but now recognizes as (viciously suppressed) pain.  
  
When he speaks, though, his voice is all bluster and fighting spirit and determination. "Now," he announces, "we are _calling_ an _exorcist_."


	6. The Closing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refers to [comparing ears](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/60316/march-16-2006/who-s-attacking-me-now----commander-coconut), [failed pull-squints](http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=109991&title=Mess-O%27Potamia---Much-Abu-About-Nothing), [Bobby's religion](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/59606/february-27-2006/the-de-deification-of-the-american-faithscape), a [certain pillow](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182056/july-12-2006/intro---7-12-06), [hurling candy](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/180973/october-20-2005/lieber---candy-and-air), and, well, a whole lot of other things.

Not five minutes after the third exorcist leaves, the Ghost of _Daily Show_ Past (as they've taken to calling the spirit) drops in again.  
  
The staff is mid-rehearsal, although they've paused so that Stephen can give orders from his chair about a particularly complex graphic idea that he's just thought of. He's in the middle of explaining how the lighting changes mid-graphic (and Bobby makes a note to remind Peter not to make a fuss about how the angle being described is not technically possible), when he stops.  
  
The Ghost has appeared.  
  
It wobbles calmly into view, sitting in the front row of the empty audience box. Yes, Bobby notes with dismay, _sitting_ ; it's not just a floating head any more. It's the full figure of Jon from head to foot: classy suit, wry smile, a handful of papers that—despite being translucent and grey like the rest of him—manage to give the _impression_ of being powder blue. There's none of this "ooooOOOOOooOooOOOo" business any more, either. When he speaks, it's in the voice that personified, and still personifies, _The Daily Show_.  
  
"That's a _really_ complicated graphic," the Ghost remarks.  
  
Stephen froze when he was in Commanding Chief mode, and his face hasn't changed since; only his eyes have shifted to an expression normally reserved for bear attacks.  
  
"Sure you don't want to do something simple?" continues the Ghost. "A few clips, some explosions, and a title, that's all we needed. Oh, and a clever pun. 'Run, forest, run!'"  
  
"That's not really our style," Jimmy begins through the speakers.  
  
"Wouldn't it be easier, though?" asks the Ghost, and Bobby makes a slashing gesture at the camera behind him, hoping Jimmy will be savvy enough not to answer. It _would_ be easier—that's a fact—but to say so will only encourage the Ghost.  
  


  
Stephen, thankfully, speaks up. "Bobby? How much did we pay that last exorcist?"  
  
"Um," says Bobby, glancing at the invoice on his clipboard, "nothing. We got the guy who hosts _Con_ to hire her."  
  
"Good. It won't be hard to get our money back."  
  
"Oh, she was a fake," the Ghost assures them. "Now, the _second_ one— _he_ knew what he was doing. But you don't really want to get rid of me, do you, Stephen?"  
  
The host sets his jaw and tenaciously focuses his gaze on all the things in the room that do not resemble Jon Stewart. "Can we get the text in a marquee? And add some color." He looks over at the stage manager. "I'm going to need a baseball cap. Bobby, pick one of those up for me."  
  
"Sure." Bobby makes a note of it, then glances at the Ghost.  
  
"I'll come back later," it says with Jon's voice, and fades out.  
  
  
—  
  
  
During dinner hour, Bobby retreats to his office and gives _The Daily Show_ 's new studio a call. He works his way through two operators before he gets to someone who remembers him from his own days on the show and patches him straight through.  
  
He isn't sure if Jon will remember him, but the first words from the familiar voice (with the familiar man himself behind it this time) are, "Bobby! What's up? Make it quick; they want me down in editing in five minutes, and if I'm not there we'll get the monkey-washing-a-cat clip popping up in the middle of a presidential montage. Actually, that's not a bad idea. How are things at the _Report_?"  
  
"They're fine," replies Bobby, with perfect truthiness.  
  
"I've been watching; they look great. Even saw you a few times. You handle it well."  
  
Bobby's too flustered for a moment to do anything but stammer, "Thanks."  
  
Fortunately, the man on the other end of the phone is no stranger to keeping up a conversation. "So how's Stephen? He hasn't called me back since the other day. Is he okay?"  
  
Bobby leans back in his chair (it's the only nice thing in his office; on a salary like his, shabby décor is the trade-off necessary for a comfortable seat) and wonders where to begin. But Jon's voice is so friendly and accepting and _genuine_ that he settles on the facts.  
  
"Jon, we are being haunted by the ghost of _The Daily Show_."  
  
There's a pause, but not a long one.  
  
"I thought something like that might happen," the host admits.  
  
_Wait, what?_  
  
"Especially when so many of you guys got your start with us," continues Jon. "It's the one thing I can't help you with—the _Report_ can't come up with its own identity separate from _The Daily Show_ if I'm hovering over it. You have to work on your ideas and trademarks and clever stuff, without my influence, if you're going to establish yourselves as a show in your own right. Know what I mean?"  
  
Bobby is getting the sense that Jon doesn't know what he, Bobby, means. But he does understand the advice. "Yeah, I know."  
  
"Listen, I gotta go. You'll be fine; just trust yourselves. Talk to you later. Take care of Stephen for me."  
  
"Will do. 'Bye," says Bobby, and only after the phone has gone dead does he wonder what _that_ meant.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Had Bobby bothered to think about it, he would have realized that he was dreaming. The insane clown with the knife would have been the first clue.  
  
But, in the way that dreams go, he doesn't think much of it; and so he doesn't realize that he's sleeping at work, until someone calls his name and the clown turns into Stephen.  
  
Bobby opens his eyes. He's in his usual post during the show, next to the audience seating; but he's sitting down and leaning against the side, the audience has disappeared, most of the crew is gone, and the regular lights are back on. The show is over. Once Bobby realizes this, the resulting panic-induced adrenaline surge wakes him up completely.  
  
"I'm very sorry, Stephen—I didn't realize I was this tired—"  
  
"Don't worry about it," says the host, and Bobby is completely baffled until he notices Killer sweeping stage left and watching them meaningfully.  
  
There's nobody else in sight, and then Bobby notices that Stephen is no longer in his suit; he's stripped down to the shirt and—are those _jeans?_  
  
If it weren't a collared shirt with gold cufflinks, he could almost be called _casual._  
  
"The rest of the crew has cleared out. What do you say we call it a night and head downtown?"  
  
Bobby blinks a few times, and covertly pinches himself to make sure he's really awake. When it turns out that he is, he gets to his feet. "I don't know, Stephen. I have a lot of work to do . . . ."  
  
"Only if I say so," counters Stephen.  
  
(To truly get rid of Bobby's to-do list, Stephen would have to fire him. Bobby's not sure if Stephen's aware of this or not. He hopes not.)  
  
"No, really, there are things that I need to take care of . . . setting up the next exorcist, making the appointment with that senator, ordering those balloons you wanted. Besides, isn't this something you should be doing with your friends?"  
  
Stephen's face flickers, then he gets the warm grin back on track. "You _are_ my friend, Bobby. You're my . . . what's that religion of yours?"  
  
"Universalist Unitarian."  
  
"Right, right. You're my Univerlitananascientowiccarin friend. Now, go get your coat."  
  
Bobby didn't miss the flicker, and he's savvy enough to know what it means. "Okay, Stephen," he acquiesces, trying to pull off his headset without putting down his clipboard or losing his glasses. (It's a losing battle.) "Just give me a few minutes to get ready."  
  
  
—  
  
  
Being at a bar with Stephen turns out to be just like being at work with him, except that there's dirty snow all over the floor and no convenient banks of seats in which to contain the audience.  
  
At first, Stephen tries to deal with the other patrons in roughly the same way he deals with fans. Instead of hurling candy and compliments, he buys everyone a drink. But then he insists on withholding each drink until he's asked the recipient, "George Bush: _great_ president or _greatest_ president?" (Bobby ends up standing at the side of the queue, warning each person in turn: "Just say 'greatest' and he'll buy you a double.")  
  
A few women hit on Stephen in the course of this, and he cheerfully explains that he's married, then starts to pitch Formula 401. They all have second thoughts.  
  
At least one man hits on him as well, but Stephen, being Stephen, completely misses the subtext, and his pursuer eventually gives up.  
  
Nobody hits on Bobby. With the charm rolling from his boss in waves the way it is, it's a wonder anybody even notices he's there.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Eventually they end up in a booth at the side of the room, and after he's downed three American Beauties ("the only drink for a true patriot"), it becomes clear that Stephen is a sad drunk. Still angry—this is Stephen Colbert, after all—but in a profoundly depressing way.  
  


  
Bobby sips his latte (thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for the ubiquity of Starbucks; there's one right next door) and listens as his boss rants.  
  
"An' anoth'r thing . . . 'm sick a' hearin' 'bout Jon Stewart's ears," the host mumbles, glaring angrily at the table. "Stupid . . . _nothin'_ wrong with _my_ ears . . . the crowd loved 'em. _You_ like my ears, don'cha, Bobby?" He attempts a probing stare, which would be more effective if he weren't focusing on Bobby's left shoulder.  
  
"Your ears are fine, Stephen," says Bobby mildly, after the third stare attempt fails and his boss gives up on the idea.  
  
"'S'right." Stephen reaches for his right ear and succeeds in knocking his glasses askew.  
  
"Do you need some help?" ventures Bobby.  
  
"'Course not. 'S th' pull-squint. 'S ezzackly what I meant t'do." Using both hands, Stephen manages to get his glasses off without poking himself in the eye more than once. "See . . . Jon can't do _that_ , hm?"  
  
Bobby thinks back to the phone conversation from earlier that day. "Maybe you should just . . . try not to think about Jon for a while," he suggests tentatively.  
  
Stephen shakes his head. "Can't."  
  
"I don't see why not. If it bothers you so much, focus on something else." This is as bold as Bobby's ever been around Stephen, and it's only because the host won't remember it the next morning.  
  
Another shake of the head, although this might be because Stephen's lost control of it: he catches it in both hands a moment later and plants his elbows squarely on the table to steady themselves (nearly crushing his glasses, which Bobby swiftly pulls to a safer location).  
  
"Can't. Can't stop thinkin' 'bout Jon, or 'bout Alan, or . . . I _miss_ 'm, Bobby, I . . . ."  
  
There are lots of things that could be said to this ( _you talk to Jon every night, and Alan works in the same building_ ), but Bobby doesn't say them. Instead he puts out his hand and awkwardly pats his boss on the shoulder. Then he leaves it there, because Stephen is shaking, and seems to need the support.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Stephen has never cared for facts, but this one cannot be avoided: he's not to be trusted in a car tonight.  
  
Bobby barely gets him to walk back to the studio, though the cold of the air (it being the dead of night in a New York winter and all) helps a bit. Stephen's office is much nicer than Bobby's: it has paintings, several plush chairs, a polished hardwood desk, and a couch (which is too plain for the rest of the room, but looks suspiciously similar to the one _The Daily Show_ auctioned off when it moved). The host is out cold within moments of collapsing onto this couch.  
  
Bobby, though, is wide awake; the coffee has taken its toll. He takes a minute to leave a message on Lorraine's machine saying that they're swamped with work and Stephen has crashed at the office, but he loves her and will see her tomorrow, and good luck to his son on that science project. (Stephen hasn't actually said any of this, but Bobby has found that the longer it's been since his wife has threatened to leave him, the easier he is to work with.)  
  
That done, Bobby takes a seat in one of Stephen's chairs (all of which are much more cozy than his own) and looks over at the sleeping man on the couch.  
  
"I'm your friend," he says experimentally.  
  
It sounds odd.  
  
"I'm your stage manager," he tries.  
  
That works. But something's missing.  
  
"I'm your . . ." he begins, hoping the missing phrase will fill itself in.  
  
No such luck.  
  
Bobby takes Stephen's glasses out of his pocket and sets them on the desk, next to a framed photo of Lorraine and the kids.  
  
He then retrieves an American-flag-patterned pillow and tucks it under his boss' head.  
  


  
"I'm _your_ ," says Bobby quietly. "If—if that's okay with you. If that isn't too gay, or too sentimental, or whatever."  
  
Stephen doesn't object.  
  
"We're all _your_ ," he continues. "Your staff, your crew, your friends, your audience, your Nation. We start out as ordinary people, and then you make us yours, and that makes us special. I mean, all someone has to do is watch your show to be a hero. So what does that make me?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"I don't know," says Bobby. "But I'm going to keep being it, for as long as I can."  
  
Stephen's breath is slow and even.  
  
Outside, the wind starts to scream. Bobby ignores it, settles back into the most comfortable chair, and waits for sleep.  
  
  
—  
  
  
If there is one thing Bobby is best at, it's making sure things—and people—are in the right place at the right time.  
  
When he wakes up late the next morning, he slips down to the restroom to wash his face, puts on a fresh _Report_ T-shirt, swings by the Starbucks for an extra-tall cappucino with cinnamon, and gets to work. By the time Stephen wakes up, Bobby is not only all caught up, but ready with brunch: a glass of orange juice, two aspirin, and a stack of toast with the Helen Thomas faces carefully scraped off.  
  
That takes care of the things.  
  
When the rest of the crew starts to arrive, Bobby personally gives everybody two messages. The first is to keep the volume down today, as Stephen isn't feeling well. The second is where to be, and when.  
  
That, hopefully, takes care of the people.  
  
Pretty soon the news feeds are playing, the computers are humming, and the process of creating that night's _Report_ is in full swing.  
  
"The right time" comes just as they're gearing up for rehearsal, when the lights start to flicker. Stephen, now sporting a new suit and freshly combed hair, looks nervously up from his chair. Stephen nods to Jimmy via the camera behind him, then walks out onstage.  
  
"Stop with the lights, _Daily Show_ Past," orders Stephen. "We know you're there."  
  
There's a dark pause, and then the lights return to their normal glow as the Ghost of Daily Show Past materializes in front of the desk. "You don't sound happy to see me," it says, voice mock-hurt.  
  
"You're ruining my spotlights," Stephen points out.  
  
"Only trying to get your attention. Sorry about that."  
  
"Why are you here?" cuts in Bobby. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, people gathering around the edges of the room. Good.  
  
The Ghost turns to him, surprised. "Why am I . . . Isn't it obvious?" It claps its hands, as a demonstration: they pass through each other. "I'm dead. —Hey, this is pretty cool."  
  
It waves its arms through each other with Jon's bemused half-smile on its face, then turns the smile on Stephen, who catches his breath.  
  
"But I don't really _want_ me to be dead," it explains. "Do you, Stephen?"  
  
"Why not?" protests Bobby. "You _are_ dead. That can't change."  
  
"Sure, it can," says Jon's voice brightly. "The studio's still here. You guys are still here. You just have to come back."  
  
Stephen hasn't moved; the Ghost now takes a step towards him, and then another.  
  
"You liked it at _The Daily Show_. No bleeding walls, no failing lights. Nobody telling you that Jon Stewart is sexier than you are. No attacks, no worrying about graphics, no fiascos with people on toast or helium balloons that won't fall. It was much nicer, remember?"  
  
Bobby starts moving, because he can see that if Stephen's resolve were personified it would be a pillar, and it would be crumbling.  
  
"Come back, Stephen," says the Ghost gently, opening its arms. "Rob, Ed, Sam, Stephen, and Jon—the crack team of correspondents that was The Daily Show. Remember that? You could bring that back." It's at the desk, voice low, eyes locked on Stephen's. "We could be _us_ again."  
  
"No," says Bobby from over Stephen's shoulder, "you couldn't."  
  
The Ghost looks up, confused, and Stephen breathes again. It's a start.  
  
"I mean," continues Bobby, licking his lips nervously, "that time is over, and it's not coming back, no matter how much you try to scare us. You're, you're gone."  
  
"What do you know about it?" snaps the Ghost. "You're just a gofer!"  
  
All of a sudden, Bobby is ticked off. "Not any more," he snaps back. "I've been promoted. Things change. This is a new show. Can't you see that?"  
  
He gestures around at the studio: at the lights, at the furniture, at the very lines on the floor. "Do you see the way this room looks now? Do you see how everything in here is pointing towards Stephen? That's reality. This isn't _The Daily Show_ , and it never will be again. This . . ."  
  
All at once his courage fails him, because the Ghost's expression has twisted into something never seen on the real Jon's face: something feral and angry and terrifying.  
  
But he's gone far enough, because the rest of the crew has gathered behind him, and they finish the sentence in ragged but deafening chorus:  
  


  
". . . is _The Colbert Report!_ "  
  
The triumphant cry of an eagle rings through the studio, overwhelming the Ghost's last shriek as it shatters and vanishes.  
  
"And _that_ ," says Stephen decisively into the resulting silence, "is the truth!"


	7. We'll Be Right Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alan's a nice guy.](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/70788/june-15-2006/new-black-friend) (Not so different from Bobby.)

Bobby is a very good stage manager, but that doesn't mean he never makes mistakes. You can hardly blame him; after all, his job description has expanded to include items like "purchase helium balloons that fall", "buy cookies from Stephen's daughter," and "remind Stephen when his daughter's birthday is, and that she's no longer in her My Little Pony phase, and hasn't been for several years."  
  
Checking through Stephen's email is one of these unwritten duties. It's usually a simple affair. He just wasn't paying enough attention.  
  
Stephen's doing a short piece on his ongoing hunt for a "new black friend", a replacement for Alan, who was caught on film at an antiwar rally. It's made for good material ever since, as Stephen has anger to spare about it, and angry Stephen makes for good TV.  
  
"Now, luckily, people have been sending me emails," Stephen tells the audience, pulling out a sheaf of paper. "There are a lot of great applicants—but most of them just don't have what it takes to be my new black friend."  
  
There are hundreds of great applicants, and this is after Bobby's culled the ones he knows will really set Stephen off. But the host has yet to settle on one. Bobby has a good idea why.  
  
"I almost picked this young lady," Stephen explains, and Jimmy puts her photo on the screen. Bobby had let that one through once he'd seen the line "I THINK YOU ARE THE SEXIEST MIDDLE-AGED WHITE GUY EVER." Can't go wrong with that, can you?  
  
"So far, so good," says Stephen after reading that same line. "But read the fine print: _(Next to Jon Stewart, of course)_."  
  
Oops.  
  
  
—  
  
  
But once he's torn up the printout and hurled it aside, Stephen moves on with surprising ease, and plunges into the Wørd with all his usual vigor. It works out.  
  
In fact, _everything_ has worked out since the Ghost was banished. Bobby knows it can't last, but he sends a quiet prayer to Whatever Benevolent Deity Or Deities, If Any, Might Be Listening that it'll hold out just a little longer.  
  
"Democrats are like werewolves," Stephen announces, kicking off the Wørd. ( _But Neutered And Declawed_ , the bullet points out.)  
  
The almost-crisis of the morning has Bobby nervous, because he is taking a gamble with today's show, and he's already made one mistake, which is a bad sign.  
  
"If we're not careful," warns Stephen, "these _Hispaniccaines_ will do their hat-dance across our southern coastlines and take billions in damage away from blue-blooded American storms!" ( _Learn to Devastate in English!_ chides the bullet.)  
  
But Bobby took a gamble with the Ghost, and got it right. So he's hoping he'll get this one right too.  
  
"And that's the Wørd," Stephen concludes, to the cheers of the audience. "We'll be right ba—. . ."  
  
He trails off.  
  
He's noticed.  
  
The moment of truth (or at least truthiness) has arrived.  
  


  
"Alan?" asks Stephen over the clapping.  
  
The audience notices that something's up, and gets quiet.  
  
"Alan? Is—is that you?"  
  
In the fourth row of the audience seats, Alan gives a little wave. "Hi, Stephen."  
  
  
—  
  
  
The audience doesn't quite know how to take the conversation that follows. When actually faced with Alan, Stephen's shield of anger deserts him. Bobby's afraid a few times that his boss will fall apart altogether.  
  
But the gamble of asking him to come in during the show has paid off. Stephen cannot fall apart in front of the audience, and he knows it—on a gut level, no less.  
  
Instinct carries him through.  
  
When he remembers that Alan works for the _Report_ , Stephen's anger resurfaces—"Get back to work!"—and Bobby thinks it's over.  
  
Then, as Alan's coming down the steps, Stephen stops him.  
  
"It's—it is really good to see you."  
  


  
There's a bit of unsure laughter in the audience. They can hardly believe he's serious, because this looks like _emotional honesty_ , and, really, from _Stephen?_  
  
"Do you think maybe I could . . . get a hug?"  
  
"Yeah," says Alan, with a shrug and a smile, that amiable calm that had kept him from being turned away by Stephen's friendship long ago. "Sure, man."  
  
He walks down onto the stage; and Stephen gets up from his desk and walks to meet him; and then, at the last second, Stephen claps Alan on the back and turns them both towards the camera with a wide grin. The crowd goes wild. This is the Stephen they know and love.  
  
Jimmy, instincts as sharp as ever, snaps a photo.  
  


  
It looks like everything is back to normal—except that when Stephen bounds back up to his chair, there's a spring in his step. Bobby exchanges a knowing smile with Alan as the latter walks out.  
  
"The search continues, Africa-America!" declares Stephen. And the show goes on, and Stephen keeps being Stephen, and Bobby's work is far from done. But they've made progress. More than Bobby ever thought he'd see. And they'll keep moving forward.  
  
Well, not right this second. Commercial break.  
  
But, as Stephen assures the audience: "We'll be right back."


End file.
